


Backstabbed

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [28]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 01:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13307649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: It had started with small things: a ruined breakfast, slamming doors.





	Backstabbed

It started with nightmares. 

Mark jolted awake for the third time in one night: shaking, sweating, swinging at shadows. It took him a moment to remember that he was home, in his own bed. Safe, for now. Another moment for him to relax, pushing himself upright with a puff of air. 

It was a June night-- really, early morning, Mark figured, looking at the clock-- and all was quiet. The only sound was his own breathing, heart beating in his ears; the occasional thump of a fat bug at the window. Mark looked around, the whites of his eyes glinting in the glow between the blinds.

All was as it should be. 

The lights outside flickered, a wink in the darkness. Mark ran a hand through his hair, eyes still straining to find the familiar outline of his own room. Faces seemed to jump out of the shadows, the barest movement in the corner of his eye. It was just enough to make him paranoid, just enough to set him on edge. 

It wasn’t often that he talked to himself. Living alone, he sometimes thought that he would do it more. He’d joked, moving in, that he’d eventually be crazy enough to make up an imaginary roommate. 

It was closer to the truth than he thought.

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. The bed springs creaked as he swung himself out of bed, feet muffled against the floor. It was quiet, almost lonely, living alone. An empty apartment below him, a full one above: Mark felt as if he was caught in the middle more and more these days. 

On the other hand, there was no one to complain as he shuffled heavily to the bathroom, rubbing impatiently at his eyes.

The bathroom was entirely too bright, and Mark squinted, bleary, into the mirror. The door clicked behind him, fingers feeling gently for the lock. Sure enough, everything was secure, despite the feeling of eyes boring into his back. 

Mark took a deep breath. It was much harder to believe the nightmares now, standing in the light. The faces, smoky, imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, were growing fainter with each blink. Even the worst of nightmares faded quickly.

Something in his chest seemed to shift, a flicker of anxiety. His mind flicked through the images of the dream, again, the brightness of the bathroom fading away as he hunched over the sink.

He had been frozen, unable to move or scream or even call for help. He’d watched a person-- no, a monster-- no,  _himself_. He’d watched  _himself_  bend over the bodies of his friends, his family, even faces he recognized from conventions; a knife gleaming in his hands, skin gray, hair parted the wrong way... 

Mark shuddered, blinking the room around him back into focus. He was here, greasy mirror and dirty sink, in the florescent light. He didn’t want to think about the shadows, just now; the glint in his own eyes as he turned, laughing, with blood on his hands. 

Instead, he looked into the mirror, trying to ground himself. He looked awful, he figured, automatically running a hand through his hair, mussed where he’d tossed and turned through the night. 

It wasn’t night, not anymore. Morning light was slanting through the frosted glass of the bathroom window, sleepy footsteps from the floor above. The darkness in the bathroom filtered away, bit by bit, leaving Mark alone with the glow of dawn. 

And Mark looked at himself in the mirror, quirking his mouth into a smile. 

And he could have sworn that the man looking back at him winked. 

* * *

The nightmares got worse. 

June turned into July by the time that Mark was back to dry heaving over the sink, fighting his eyes open in a desperate attempt to keep the nightmares at bay. The faces in his dreams were clearer than ever: it took effort, now, to scrub them from his vision. 

He sat back in his chair, sighing heavily. Recording done, editing to do, and his eyes burning every time he blinked. He was tired, of course, tired from sleepless nights and the afterimage of a face, eyes dripping and mouth screaming. 

Mark rubbed at his face impatiently. He couldn’t rest, not now, in the middle of the day--

Oh. A look at the window, a second look at his watch. It was night, somehow, the apartment dark around him. 

“Can’t go to sleep,” he muttered out loud, and the room seemed to mock him with its silence. Still, he slumped in his chair, staring into space. 

It was as if there was a ringing in the room around him. The shadows seemed to coil and uncoil, and Mark watched, hypnotized. The outlines of his desk were out of focus: his brain was in a fog, detached. It was the kind of feeling that came from watching the endless horizon at sea, seeing the ocean curve away under the indifference of the sky. There was the roar of waves in his ears.

Mark’s face stretched into a smile, skin feeling like rubber, along with the distant awareness that he was a backseat passenger in his own body.

The realization faded along with the smile, as quickly as it had come, and Mark shook himself awake. He was dozing, daydreaming with his eyes wide open. The shadows in the room were flat, the dark no longer malicious. He looked around, eyes wide, as if expecting something— someone—to be leaning lazily against the wall. 

No one, and Mark was alone. 

He turned back to the computer, shaking off the fear that was crawling up his spine. There were better things to do than imagine that the shadows at his feet were swirling like a whirlpool, about to suck him down into its depths, and-- Mark took a breath, stopping his train of thought. His eyes still burned from keeping them open. 

“You win,” he mumbled, pushing away from the desk. “Coffee it is.”

As he left, he didn’t notice the blinking red light of the camera, still recording, still watching. 

* * *

The uneasy weight of eyes on his back never went away. It hung over his head, a blade about to drop, and forced him to double and triple-check the locks on the doors before bed. Alongside it, the inevitability of something bad happening. 

There were a handful of videos on the channel, now, that he didn’t recall uploading. Creepy, if nothing else. He’d found the latest one the morning after it had uploaded, and by then, it was too late to take it down. There was a flood of comments joking about his ‘dark side,’ even fan art; and honestly, it was cute. Mark had chuckled, scrolling through the comments, even though he didn’t remember the video itself. He’d probably uploaded it on impulse, and forgotten. 

After all, there were more and more blank stretches in his memory as of late. 

The guillotine didn’t drop all at once, but in stages, while his guard was down. A moment of dozing here, an unlocked door there. It was probably nothing, he told himself. Just rampant paranoia, living alone. 

It didn’t feel like he was alone. 

As he scrolled through the comments on the latest, titled, “Don’t move,” most of them christening him ‘Darkiplier,’ his phone lit up with a text. 

**_Wade:_ ** _nice video! lol how long did that take to edit?? it looks rlly good_

Mark furrowed his brow, pausing, before typing out a reply. 

**_Mark:_ ** _u know me, always working ;)_

As he hit send, he looked back over the comments, the view count, the like ratio. They were statistics, meaningless numbers, really. But watching them tick upwards fed a tiny flicker in his chest: something like pride, something like ambition. Something familiar.

* * *

Mark sighed, bending to pick up another fallen cup. _It’s a good thing you’re a bachelor without glass breakfast plates_ , he mocked himself, smiling a little. Cups kept falling, though thankfully not breaking, and he couldn’t quite place why. He filled one with orange juice and set it well away from the edge of the counter, just in the corner of his eye. 

There was a loud sizzling, and Mark sprinted back to the stove in time to save his bacon from burning, again. 

It was a quiet morning—peaceful, despite the smell of burnt bacon—and the nightmares were slowing, if not stopping. Mark hummed, turning his strips onto a plate before getting started on the omelet. Everything was good, and August had come with a sense of calm. 

A movement, and Mark turned his head. His orange juice sloshed in its cup, but everything was as it should be. The bacon started to smoke, and he hurriedly turned his attention back towards the pan.

A _crash_ , not in the kitchen, but down the hall. 

Concerned, but not enough to put his eggs to waste, Mark flipped the omelet over next to the bacon before hurrying towards the sound. It came from the bathroom, he thought, and threw open the door. 

It took Mark several moments to process what he saw: the only sound that left his mouth was a soft, “ _Fuck_.”

The sound he’d heard was the shower rod falling, apparently, the curtain ripped to shreds. The water in the sink was running hot enough to steam up the room—even so, he could see the towels ripped from their rods, soap all over the floor, the mirror fogged. 

He stepped a little further in to turn the water off, still looking around in shock. He was alone, and the door locked. What _did_ this?

Another _crash_ , in the other direction, and Mark felt distantly as if he was being baited. He sprinted, now, skidding a little in soap-soaked socks. 

If the bathroom had been a mess, the kitchen looked as if a tornado had hit it. Eggs were cracked on the floor, every cup he’d picked up was knocked back over: orange juice trickled across the floor. Worst of all, Mark turned to see his omelet and bacon scattered across the countertop, beyond saving. 

It was first fear that bubbled up, the terror of not knowing what—or who—was here with him. He’d been scared enough. Next came anger, washing the scene in red. There was something he didn’t know, and it was frustrating enough not knowing. 

But being _fucked with_? His _food_ , of all things, being ruined? That was a step too far. 

He took a deep breath and started to clean up.

* * *

Mark was almost certain that there was a poltergeist in his apartment. It had started with small things: a ruined breakfast, slamming doors. It had been a handful of weeks, and he was beginning to think that the conclusion should have been more obvious. 

After all, if the recurring mess in the kitchen and bathroom hadn’t been a clue, this had to be. He passed a towel across the mirror, wiping away what had been a very crude caricature of himself drawn in the fog. 

“Maybe I’m going crazy,” he said out loud, the bathroom echoing, the sound confirming his fears. He looked at himself in the mirror, squinting. It was September, and the cold outside fogged the windows. It didn’t feel like the end of the year, yet. Mark sighed, dropping the cloth, only a swipe of the mirror cleaned. He was probably going crazy, and that should have been a comfort. 

Even so, it felt like insects crawling under his skin, a jump at every stray sound. He hadn’t told anyone, despite feeling as if he was in a horror movie of his own making. Even if they believed him (and that was a big ‘if,’ he figured, idly tracing a design in the fog of the mirror), what could they do about it? He couldn’t just move, and who was to say that whatever it was— _who_ ever it was—wouldn’t follow him? 

Who was it, anyway?

“Hey, ghosts,” Mark said, joking. “Talk to me, we can work this out.”

It didn’t work, of course, because that sort of thing only happened in movies and badly-written fanfiction. 

Mark laughed at himself before turning to go back to his room, and if he was lucky, get some sleep. 

The lights flickered. 

Mark stopped, suddenly wishing that he hadn’t provoked whatever higher power there was. “Um. Ghost?”

Another flicker of shadow, and Mark had the sinking feeling that he was in too deep. “Can I help you?”

The doodles he’d made in the fogged-up glass suddenly started to grow, like a web of veins. Mark stumbled back as whoever it was, invisible, wrote in the steam. 

_YES._

“Right. Um. Is someone there?”

The walls seemed to reverberate, and Mark felt very, very small. 

_YES._

“Do you—” again he cleared his throat, shaky, “—do you want something?”

The _presence_ , whatever it was, seemed to hesitate: not with insecurity, but with the assurance that came before a killing blow. 

_YES._

That was more than enough. Mark took a breath, backing towards the door. “Right. I’ll, uh, think about that.”

With a click, he was back in the hallway, an ominous, frustrated wind seeming to howl behind him. 

This was crazy. This was beyond crazy. He was talking to someone, some other consciousness, that was stalking him through his home. He should call the police—no, he should call an exorcist. Someone. Anyone. 

_No one would believe you._

The thought came suddenly, a piece of foreign lint, and Mark knew that it wasn’t his own thought.

“This isn’t funny.” He was talking out loud again, voice shaking.

_It isn’t meant to be._

“Is this real?”

_It’s all in your head._

“Shut up.”

_Unlikely._

Mark swallowed, feeling a headache begin to twinge between his temples. He was _talking_ to it. “Who are you?”

 _Whatever you want me to be._

There was a smirk to the thought, echoing around his head, that sent an uncomfortable shudder down Mark’s spine. “Right. Well, look, can we work something out, here?”

_I just want to talk._

“Okay. Okay, we can talk.”

* * *

Mark carried around a pad of paper now, watched a pen scratch, autonomous, over the surface. Still, he told no one—this was beyond fascinating, and besides, the entity had asked him to keep it a secret.

It was an entity, something with its own sentience, and he would’ve been lying if he’d said that it didn’t freak him out. Still, at times, it was almost like having a friend. An edgy roommate of sorts.

Mark had asked question upon question, never one to take things at face value. It didn’t have a name, and he wasn’t brave enough to give it one. It knew about as little as he did about how it got here—it had used the term ‘tulpa,’ but Mark had little idea how something like that could’ve come to live in his house For now, they were almost friends.

Almost.

He was afraid, of course. A demon? It had seemed impossible, but Mark had seen it draw in the fog on the mirror, had seen it flip cups off of the table when he wasn’t paying attention, had seen it pick up a pen in an invisible hand and communicate. 

If all it had wanted to do was _talk_ , that wouldn’t have been a problem. 

“Hey.” Mark took off his headphones, shooting a glare at the knocked-over light, “I’m trying to record, do you mind?”

A flurry of what seemed like wind, sloshing the water in his cup dangerously close t the computer, ruffling at the pad of paper. The pen scratched out a word on a blank page, furious, before flinging itself across the room to stick in the foam on the wall.

Mark paused his recording, sighing, and pulled the paper towards him. 

_BORED._

“Yeah, well.” Mark squinted into empty space and moving shadows. “Fuck off for a bit, would you?” He turned back to his work for all of a moment before the pen hit him in the back of the head with a _thwack_. “Knock it off!”

He was reminded, yet again, that the entity living with him wasn’t necessarily benevolent. 

The power cut off with what sounded like a whistle of wind, low and angry. Mark swore, looking around with eyes wide, that the shadows moved. 

“Okay, fine.” Mark glanced at his computer with a stab of anger, frustration. Sure enough, the screen was dark, recording lost. He spun in his chair, giving his full attention to the empty room. “What do you want now?”

 _BORED._

The thought came with a headache, and Mark gestured at the paper and pen. “I get it. What do you expect me to _do_ about it?”

The low buzzing that filled the room performed the equivalent of a shrug, and Mark rubbed at his head. “Go make a sandwich or something, I don’t care. And turn the lights back on.”

Something like hesitation, and it picked up the pen again. _Can’t eat_.

“You don’t have a body. Right, gotchya.”

A beat, and: “Any way I can help with that?” It was an offhand comment, not meant to mean anything—and yet, it was an idea. 

The entity seemed to pick up on it, and the lightbulbs flickered back to life. 

“You’re not possessing me,” Mark warned, turning back to restart his computer. 

The furious scribbling of pen on paper, and he turned to see several pages spread across the table. He picked one up, tilting his head. 

It was halfway between a diagram and a scrawled explanation. The crude outline of what was clearly him—the hair was right, at least—with something hanging on his back. A shiver ran up his spine, staring at it traced into the paper, leaving violent indents in the desk. 

“Is that… you?”

The entity didn’t grace him with a response, the pen moving onto another sheet. 

“Hey, okay.” Mark ran a hand through his hair as the pen paused with the air of hesitation. He glanced at the papers again, reading, interpreting them like a blueprint. “You can come experience eating food, but I’ll move us around. That’s the idea, right?”

_Yes._

The response was written hurriedly, slid towards him, and Mark took a breath, standing. “Why not?”

There were a lot of reasons why not, but somehow, the entity was more persuasive than he was entirely prepared for. Manipulation, a voice like his own warned him. It’s using you.

And Mark was about to listen to himself, about to tell the demon to _fuck off_ and never come back.

The memory of his view count ticking upwards, frenzied comments, the scant four thousand subscribers he had erupting in flames. Something close to power. 

“Let’s do this.”

As soon as he spoke, a weight settled on his shoulders, like a too-heavy backpack or tightly wrapped blanket. It was almost comforting, but the light buzzing in his ears was enough to set him on edge. The entity seemed to whisper in his ear, closer to an audible voice than it had ever been. 

“Curious.”

“What, me?” It was almost an effort to move his mouth, the weight of two people. His headache was getting worse. 

“Living.”

Mark could’ve laughed, but instead focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Together, he—no, _they_ —moved out of the office and into the hallway, down to the kitchen. 

Mark caught himself, panting at the kitchen counter. “Jeez,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he was speaking aloud or not (his mouth didn’t even seem to move). “You’re heavy.”

Something like a laugh, and it hummed, “Food?”

“I mean,” Mark opened a cupboard with a strain, fingers starting to shake, “all we have are Cheez-It’s.”

“Adequate.”

Mark took hold of the box, and felt the exact moment that he became a backseat passenger in his own body. A flip of his— not his anymore—wrist, and he had a mouthful of crackers. 

It was obvious enough that the entity had never eaten before, and it started to chew. 

“Ow!” Mark took back control with a flash of pain as the entity bit down on his tongue, hard. “What the _fuck,_ dude!”

“Apologies,” and it didn’t sound like an apology, but a realization made far too late. “I was… excited.”

“Well, calm down, jeez.” Mark chewed and swallowed, working around the taste of rust pooling in his mouth. 

“Delicious.” The word was chilling, and Mark had the feeling that it wasn’t just talking about food. 

“It’s just Cheez-It’s,” Mark shrugged, his shoulders barely even moving. His tongue throbbed, head pounding. This was profoundly uncomfortable. 

It hummed, seeming to enjoy the moment again. The lights flickered. 

“This is great and all,” Mark started, almost timid, “but can we stop? It... it hurts.”

A moment of deathly silence, refusal hanging in the air. 

“Of course.” The weight drew back with what felt like uncoiling tentacles, a knife’s bite of restraint. 

Mark slumped against the counter, suddenly more tired than before. “That was… fun.”

 _Indeed_. The voice echoed around his head again with a twinge of pain, and Mark waved it away. 

“That’s enough for today, all right?”

No response, a feeling like triumph hanging over his head. 

And the entity didn’t bother Mark again that day, and the videos went up on time; and Mark watched the view count tick upwards with the feeling that he had lost something that he didn’t know he’d had.

The taste of blood still lingered in his mouth.

* * *

It was the end of the month by the time that Mark’s guard went down again, and for the last time. 

“Look, I’m trying to record, we have a livestream to do, and I’m stressed out of my mind, so can you just _fuck off_?”

The entity was stronger, it seemed. It had piggy-backed on his body a few more times, and it had taken its toll—they had talked more, and with every day, an air of unease seemed to hang around the apartment. Sometimes Mark saw shadows moving out of the corner of his eye, an oppressive force pushing down on his chest almost constantly. Still, not a word about it passed his lips.

Others had commented on it, of course. The way his skin seemed paler, dark circles under his eyes, his hair-trigger temper. Even Mark had overlooked it, chalking it up to stress. He’d dismissed their fears to fight his battles alone. 

It was lonely at the top, after all, and here he was trying to make it big. Right now, that was what mattered. Power. That was all that mattered. The others were weak. The entity never asked, or judged him—if anything, it helped. 

Just not right now.

Mark didn’t wait for a response, snapping his headphones back on as a wind picked up around his office. It was darker in here than ever. 

_Bored._

A stabbing pain behind his eyes, and Mark ignored it, clicking.

_BORED._

“Make yourself useful and hand me a pen, then.” He snapped the words, not even expecting compliance. 

The pen hit him in the back of the head, a familiar twinge. “If you’re not going to be helpful,” Mark growled, not even flinching, “get lost.”

 _Fine,_ the entity mocked, and Mark didn’t notice the heaviness of the demon settling on his back. _I’ll be helpful. Let me help._

“You can’t edit videos. The most helpful thing you can do is leave me alone.”

 _Don’t say that_ , and it was almost purred into his ear. _You have no idea what I can do… now._

“I don’t have time for this.” Mark turned to shut the voice out, but it was tugging at him again, making his heart pound the way it did every time he uploaded a v-log, the way it did while he waited for the first comments to appear. 

_Let me show you._

“And is this going to take long?” Admitting defeat, Mark put his work on hold, crossing his arms. 

_Not at all._ The voice was smug, knowing it had won. 

Mark took a breath, blinked, and it seemed as if the shadows in the room had become solid. The barest outline of a figure stood above him. 

Mark drew back. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hello.” It had a voice, now, ringing through the air with a sound that didn’t even seem to form words. 

“Are you…”

“I am here to help.”

It was persuasion, hanging solid in the air, and Mark had the barest trace of hesitation. “How?” He got to his feet, eyebrows raised. 

The shadows stretched a hand out towards him, formless and dark. “Just…let me in.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “We talked about this. You can piggy-back once a week, and not when I’m busy—”

“I don’t mean it like that,” the shadows snapped, coiling and recoiling. They seemed to regain their composure after a moment, smoothed into the shape of a person. “More than that. A partnership, and I can help you. Maybe even more than you know.”

An argument lingered on Mark’s lips for a moment, but only a moment. He eyed the outstretched hand, heart beating in his ears. “Just let you in?”

“We can do great things together, Markiplier.”

A glance at the mountain of work before him, like sinking to the bottom of an ocean.

The feeling that came before stepping out on stage, or from holding a delicate insect. Influence. Power. Control. 

Mark took the shadow’s hand, a live wire, and the world went hazy before his eyes.

“Hello, everybody: Markiplier here, welcoming you to _my_ O͔̖̻̖c͕͎t͎̕o̪̦͈͇͖b͍̯͞e̪̖͓͝r̖̱̠̱̘ ͙̗̪̻̘o̭͔f͔̱̦̙͓ ̨̼͈̳̩̺̗T̨e͕̘̺̬̦r͎̗̥r̟̼͕͈o̼̣̭ͅr̝͉̭͚͎͓͔.”


End file.
